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carmyboobear · 1 month

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Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link

Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets.

Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship

A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DON’T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!

You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.

The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.

You're sure you could’ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.

After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful.

You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low.

You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume.

“When would you be able to start?” Some of the workers asked.

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer.

“If all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,” was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore.

“Thanks for your time,” you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop.

Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.

That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner was…pretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger.

The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead.

“Welcome,” he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on.

“Hi. Um…” You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. “I was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.”

“We are,” he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though.

“Thank god,” you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, and—”

“I'm the owner,” he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.

“Sorry?” You repeat. “I swear it was this guy—he had short dark hair, I think—”

“Yeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.” He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing.

“Oh. Got it. Uh…” To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. “Here's my resume, then.”

He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back.

“You worked as a prep cook.” He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question.

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.”

“Right. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?”

“Uh…” They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. “They were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least it’s only half of a lie.

“How do you work under pressure?”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Well enough.”

“Willing to learn?”

“Obviously. I mean…” You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. “Yeah.”

“When'd you be able to start?” You're surprised he's already asking this.

“Tomorrow,” you say, just like you’ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign.

Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen.

“Uh,” he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in.

“I told you, you have to say behind!” A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.

“How the hell did you not hear me coming?” A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. “I was in the middle of having a conversation with Tina—”

“Great, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to waste—”

“Well, who's fault is that?”

“Who's fault is that? You did not just—”

“Guys!” The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. “I'm tryin’ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.”

Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think.

“Carmy, talk some sense into her,” the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. “All of this on the floor—”

“You didn't say behind,” the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.

“You didn't say behind,” he imitates back. “Carmy—”

“She’s right. Richie, step out,” Carmy says. “Syd, you clean this up.”

“But—” You hear her start to protest.

“You spilled it, you clean it,” he cuts through, decisive and firm.

“I know, but Richie—”

“Clean it,” he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence.

“...Yes, chef.”

“I told you to step out,” Carmy tells who you assume is Richie.

“You're just gonna let her—”

“Step the fuck outside right fucking now!” Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. “Do the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!”

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front.

“I'm sorry about that. Fucking—” He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. “What was I saying?”

“Um, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,” you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out.

“Right. Okay. Uh—” He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. “You're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.”

“What?” You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. “I mean, I'm just surprised.”

“Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. “Y-Yeah, I want the job.”

“Good.” He motions towards the sticky note again. “Come in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.” The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. “Thank you so much.” I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you.

“Thank you,” he echoes back. “We need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway.

So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them.

I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong.

You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture.

You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to.

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions.

At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.

“They’re working with us starting today,” Carmy tells everyone. “They’re gonna be on prep.”

Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.

The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide.

Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angel—everyone seems to be pretty alright. It’s obvious they’re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. You’re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that you’re particularly unsure on.

The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didn’t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that he’s not even a chef. At least you won’t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.

Tina is next. She clearly doesn’t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and she’s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, she’s close to the rest of the staff since they’ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn she’s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to you…eventually.

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.

“You’re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when it’s done, it goes on the first shelf.” Carmy’s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, but… “You should already know this, but label everything. I don’t want to see anything without a date. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” you confirm, snapping out of it. He’s been flinging new information at you like it’s a war and he’s gunning to survive. But so are you. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect as such.” He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. “It’s just a stock, so don’t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesn’t look good.” You nod. “Been a year or so since you did this, right?”

“Yeah. I cook regularly, but I’ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,” you add hastily. “I’ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?” You ask, nudging a large plastic container.

“Correct.” A brief smile flashes across his face. “You're already following quicker than I thought you would.” You’re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter.

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

“I know.” His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh. He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. “Show me a rough dice.”

The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour.

It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off.

“Not my best work,” you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.

“It'll do.” You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. “I'll be back to check in on you later.”

You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list.

Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift.

There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from it’s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

“I am trying to find this cutting board, will someone please—”

You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline.

Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice.

“Clean your station, chef.” Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself.

“Sorry, chef,” you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. “So, uh, do we get 30's here?”

When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there.

Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep.

You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge of…something.

“You finished the prep he gave you, right?” Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. “Yeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?”

“He didn't,” you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her.

“Asshole.” She makes a shooing motion at you then. “Go, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.”

You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break.

As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen.

This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” Other than everything.

“Really?” His surprise just pisses you off further. “Well, that's good.”

“...Yeah.” You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth.

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.”

You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles.

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. “I didn't even notice.”

“Let's get a bandaid on that.” He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. “I have some in my office.”

That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.

“Thought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,” Carmy comments.

“It was sharp,” you correct. “Guess I just fucked up.”

“It happens,” he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. “Let me see the cut.”

You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm.

He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you.

He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose.

“Is that too tight?” He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place.

“No, it's okay.” You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses.

“Good.” You don’t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely it’s just to secure it further…surely.

“Thank you.” He’s still holding your hand. You’re unsure if you’re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“It’s easier if another person does it.” He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. “Did you finish prepping for the stock?”

“What you gave me, yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look at it, then,” he says, like that isn’t the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve ever heard.

“R-Right now?”

“As opposed to?” He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. “Come on.”

You don’t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.

“I’ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, don’t fucking treat them like this,” Carmy shouts, trudging over to someone’s station. “You see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Don’t—“

“Stop going into my office when I’m not there,” Carmy hisses at Richie next. “You keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I can’t find anything! It’s enough of a mess as it is! No—I said—cousin, listen to me—“

“Everyone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!” Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment.

The difference in sound is eerie. You’re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.

“Is this the prep you did today?” Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, it’s the one you placed there a moment ago.

“Yeah, it is.” You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

“What?” You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. “You told me to put it on the first shelf.”

“It goes on the second shelf.” He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. “I told you—second shelf.”

“You literally said it went on the first shelf.” The ice has melted, and it's boiling.

“No, I didn't.” You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. “And you forgot to label it.”

“Shit.” That, you did forget. You’re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. “I'm sorry, I was—”

“We always need stuff like this to be labeled,” he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. “I told you.”

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

“It’s my first fucking day!” You snap, finally, and it’s like a firecracker in the dead of night. “I don’t expect to be coddled, but I’ve only been here for a couple hours, and you’re just—“

“I told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didn’t do either of those things.” This is a different type of anger. It’s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, it’s trembling at the edges.

“You literally hired me yesterday!” You’re exasperated. “You looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and you’re mad that I’m messing up?”

“You had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?”

“It is true! You just have to give me a chance first!”

“I just gave you a chance,” Carmy snaps back, “and you fucked it up.”

“Oh my god. I just—“ You take a step back. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

“Are you quitting already?”

“I wasn’t going to.” You move towards the door. “But maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.”

You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesn’t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time.

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. “Guys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?”

“Carmen?” Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. “It's not fuckin’ budging!”

“Fuck,” Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. “Call Fak!”

“I already did! He’s gonna be here in 20!”

“20 minutes?!” Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. “Don't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!”

“Why do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!”

“Tell him to hurry the fuck up,” Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends.

“Just what I needed right now,” you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. “To be locked in a room with you.”

It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.

“...I do want you, y'know.”

“You—huh?” He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination.

“We need you here.” He's still not looking at you. “This place—it's fucked. We don't have enough hands.”

“I can tell,” you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so.

“I want you here. I do.” He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. “I need you.”

“Can you at least look at me when you say it?”

You’re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you.

“I want you,” he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. “I need you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.

“Are you gonna do better?” You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?

“I’m gonna do better,” you whisper, “if you stop being such an asshole.”

“It won't happen again,” he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is.

You don't really care, though.

His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.

“Okay,” you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him.

Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important.

“I saw you staring at my hands today,” Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. “Yesterday, too.”

“What the—no you didn't,” you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, “how did you—?”

“You're right. I didn't,” he admits with a cheeky grin. You’re really gonna punch him now.

“God, you're just,” you mutter, “you're such an asshole.”

“I know.” At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is.

“What're you…?” His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away.

“Tell me you want this.” Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. “If you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.”

I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want.

“I want this,” you murmur. “Touch me. Please.”

“Good,” Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. “That's what I thought.”

His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.

“Oh,” you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.

“You're wet.” The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. “When did this happen?”

“Fuck you is when,” you bite back, but it's all bark. “I don't know.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. “All you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?”

“I—” His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. “Don't ask me a question and then touch me like that,” you hiss, horribly turned on.

“Mm, sorry.” It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. “I didn't mean to.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive.

“Then don't. I don't care what you think of me.” You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.

“You—why—do you want me to beg or something?” Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.

“It wouldn't hurt,” he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.

“Is that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?”

Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm.

You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.

“You're already begging,” he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.

That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that you’re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You can’t help the way his fingers are making you moan.

“More,” you plead, “give me another, I can take it.” Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” he says lowly when you keep moaning. “They’re gonna hear you.”

“I—I’m trying,” you whine. You’re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. “Your fingers—“

“You’re the one who asked for more.” He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. “You said you could take it, so here’s what’s gonna happen.” His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. “You’re gonna come on my fingers, and you’re gonna be quiet. Understand?”

You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmy’s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. He’s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.

To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But there’s only so much you can do when he’s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. You’re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled. Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingers—that’s what you listen to as you come.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing down tight,” Carmy hisses, and for an irrational second you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.

You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. It’s too bad your orgasm is so potent you can’t think at all.

You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. It’s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat that’s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but you’re hot, far too hot. You don’t remember the last time you’ve finished this hard.

He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.

His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You're about to complain, something along the lines of “was that really necessary”, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.

“Don't,” you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.

“Good,” Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.

You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead.

God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth.

“Let me touch you,” you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers in—anyway.

“It's fine. I don't need it.” He's oddly cagey all of a sudden.

“Let me return the favor, please,” you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.

Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head.

“Yeah, I'm still in here,” Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. “About fuckin’ time!”

“You're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!”

“It's not just me in here, Fak.” A beat of silence. “Are you opening it?”

“Am I fucking—Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!”

That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you.

“Sorry for getting us stuck in here.” The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. “Shitty first day, huh?”

“It's cool. It's not your fault.” Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. “Kinda shitty though, yeah.”

“Yeah.” He sighs again. “If you wanna leave, I don't blame you.”

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

“You're not,” he says quickly. “But I'm—this place is a shitshow.” You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. “So if you wanna take off, just…” He shrugs. “Just go.”

Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice.

But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.

Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that.

Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at.

“Almost done!” Fak shouts. “Just one more hinge!”

“Heard,” Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. “So? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?”

Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bit—that's all you would need.

“I'm staying,” you tell him. “I need to pay rent, after all.”

Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.

“Right. Of course.” There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. “After this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.”

“Okay, sounds good,” you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.

“There should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.” The door's shifting. “But before that…” He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?

“W-What?”

“Get a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.” Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. “You need to keep your apron clean, chef.”

YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.

But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door.

“Yes, chef,” you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.

@zorrasucia

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fleetways · 1 year

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Chapter 14: Preparations

get snowed on idiot

#sonadow #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonic the werehog #sonadow fanfiction #sonic fanfiction #mdlhea #holiday special #kind of not really but also its exactly that #wanted to have this on christmas sunday but sadly it needed a few extra days to proofread #oh well #enjoy!#chazart #hall of fame #mdlhea chapter

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ohproserpine · 2 months

Note

Good luck on your midterms, and take all the time you need <3 ! We can always reread the chapters if anyone gets restless :)

Thank you so much!! :DDD MWAH MWAH ILY POOKIE

#🎙️serphiestalkshow #IM DONE WITH THE CHAPTER! :DDD GOING TO DO MY FINAL PROOFREADING NOW

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plasticfangtastic · 8 months

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american royalty. ch. 2

A Homelander x F!reader fanfic.

a/n: will post ch. 3 this week but sadly my other fic will be posted next week, enjoy this slow burn dadlander fic, and thx u to all the readers. prev. chapter:

Sypnosis: Homelander never wanted to remember you, but after welcoming Ryan into his life, he thought of you & the lie that tore you two apart. Now... thinking back, thinking of your betrayal-- was he perhaps wrong about who the father of your unborn child was? Did you perhaps told the truth all those years ago?

Tags: mild gore, angst, lots of angst, slow burn, fluff, OC characther, child neglect, dadlander, romance.

Chapter Two

Red

It had been a very long day, business was booming nowadays and since that influencer had made a couple videos on your pizzeria, you had been more than just busy, you began to run out of ingredients.

In the last four years, the restaurant had grown, it had been there since 2002 ran by your boss’s father and his brother, who had ran their own pizza shop since the 80’s but as the economy and other events hit, they had decided to relocate and re-brand, now managed by their son– a man you owed so much, had his heart not been filled with kindness you would most likely be in the streets. So you made sure his restaurant was the best, you had accolades, you’ve worked in some of the best restaurants, you were once a very prominent fast rising figure of the New York culinary scene– until Homelander came along.

Your talent revamped the restaurant and now your food was once again on the spotlight, for the first time since you left Vought, you were happy with yourself, even if it was pizza. Cooking made you happy, and this job needed you, you didn’t live in fear of sleeping in your car anymore, you didn’t need to worry that your daughter would sleep on somebody’s couch again, you were able to quit your third job and go casual on your second thanks to this place, right now you didn’t live in the best of places but you were saving up and in a couple months you’d have enough money saved up to move, and send your daughter to a better school, somewhere were her talents wouldn’t be wasted.

So here you were ten minutes before closing, another extra couple hours of overtime for your dream two bedroom apartment, where it would be safe for her, where you could finally feel like your life had moved on from him, that the door opened up and your cashier squealed.

It was a quaint looking restaurant, the wood seating was new and the wall decor had been changed trying to look less cluttered, with Art Deco lighting fixtures as the stand out feature. The place had been remodeled recently it seems, the kitchen and its big brick oven looked clean but ancient to Homelander, he stared at the menu board and metal boxes of accouterments by the counters, taking in that this was in fact a pizza place, that you of all people did in fact work at a pizza place. You who could whip up amazing fare, now made greasy cheap slices, but he had seen people come in and leave endlessly these past few days, people taking selfies, and recording themselves with your food, nothing he understood.

He looked back at the teenager on the counter offering his signature smile as she blubbered her script, then as you took a step closer knowing you couldn’t hide in this open kitchen you finally looked at each other for the first time in seven years.

Your throat collapsed and your whole body became prickly and tight, your heart was beating so fast you thought you might be having a heart attack, you looked at the clock cursing that it wasn’t over, you were almost done packing the kitchen and readying for tomorrow, having a customer at this hour was awful but having him here was about to take you to an early grave.

“What’s your best seller?” Homelander muttered looking straight at you with an aloof stare, then back at the cashier– is pizza night at my house, sorry for coming so late hope that’s not a problem?” he said exceedingly politely.

The teenager blushed and looked back at you as if asking you to pinch her.

“That would be our pepperoni queen– is two types of cheese, extra pepperoni, with our signature house made marinara, with a dash of vodka sauce in our sourdough thin crust… chili oil is optional” You had managed to say trying to ignore those piercing blue eyes, you moved back to your place staring at the few remaining trays of dough balls left– our second best seller is our chicken florentine pie.”

Homelander admittedly detested pizza, it was greasy, gooey and heavy, it was fattening and gross, but there was a familiar aroma in the room, something that was making his mouth water lightly. Looking back at the girl, he ordered both in their smallest size offered, he sat by one of the wooden booths for the ten minutes he was told to wait, and not once did he made a comment, maybe that’s why your heart stung so much, why it felt as if you were about to collapse– that after seven years, he had completely forgotten about you, while only now did you began to feel as if you could heal from all the suffering he’d cause you, how insignificant had you been all along, how you love never registered.

You both had talked of moving in together and buying a home, he wanted to buy you a restaurant, and you wanted to give him your life, you had never loved somebody as much as he made you love him, and now you were just some bum wearing a graphic t-shirt making him dinner.

You packed his food, your boss Kaleem had given him extras on the house, practically begging for Homelander to give them a photo for their socials and you simply stare as he did his superhero thing, you took one of the delivery bags knowing he would lose the food if he flew with them in hand.

After the photoshoot, Kaleem and your cashier had run to the back to show the picture to the only other staffer left at this hour.

You both looked at each other as he took the bag off your hands, you wanted to cry, your eyes welling up but you looked down afraid of him, no doubt he could hear your heartbeat tickling his ear.

“It's been a while hasn’t it?”

You could’ve collapsed into tears right then and there, it was worse to be remembered.

Growing angry at the sound of his soft voice, and that concerned expression in his face.

“Yes…”

“How you been? Didn’t think I'd ever see you again.”

“Should’ve killed me back then… got fucking close to it tho.” You dropped all pleasantries, hearing him talk and not hearing the word sorry 5 seconds in, had infuriated you. His stupid face, those stupid eyes, and that clown suit was too much for you, maybe it was the poor diet and lack of sleep but right now you wanted to ban him from Lucci’s– hope you enjoy the food.”

You pushed the bag jumping from the kitchen to the front as you headed for the door, holding it open for him.

“I’m doing alright. Now leave!”

“You don’t even want to know why I'm here?” he was taken aback by your brashness, you had always been sweet to him, tender, barely ever angry before, so why now?

“You got a little kid now, I gather like any other kid, he likes pizza… and good for him because mine is the best!”

“Not really… I actually wanted to see you. I… I just wanted to ask you something–

“Mother!!”

Your daughter emerged from the depths of the kitchen, she carried a kindle in one hand and a giftcard in the other.

“Is it okay if I use my present now? They got some books on sale and you said not to buy more books until I finished… oh…”

In the light and in front of him, your daughter truly looked like your mirror image, copy and pasted into a miniature. Her hair just past her chin, and her bangs indeed covered her eyes, peeking behind those curtains were the prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen, there was no unnatural shine to them– just blue. Her lips so thin and her complexion just a tad paler than your own now that he gave it a proper look, she was so small-- too small for her age.

“Is okay honey, is your birthday you can get any books you want” Your tone shifted entirely lowering yourself to take her face and plant a quick peck on her cheek– now go back with uncle Kaleem and let mommy close shop, okay? We’ll go home in a minute.”

“Is it your birthday young lady? Congratulations.”

Homelander threw his best smile, giving the kid a cautious pet, catching the rage in your eyes as his gloved fingers touched your daughter.

“Thanks. Is not a milestone birthday so it is not worthy of congratulations… seems inane to celebrate it” she looked at her mother with a jaded expression– " I'll go get my bag, have a good night, sir.”

Homelander pressed his lip as the most deadpan voice came out of this little girl. Her oversized black sweater and the black tights made her look oddly unhappy, but the kid just stared at him with boredom, no surprise or interest when she stood next to America's favorite son.

He wondered if that was an adult or a seven year old for a second.

He worried if the kid had told his mother about that other night, but looking back at you he went with 'maybe'.

“What’s your name?” he asked, still forcing a smile– "my… you seem like a smart girl getting books for your birthday.”

“Helena.”

The kid couldn’t muster the energy to give him anything but her dead ass voice, she began to walk away not caring for manners, nor Homelander.

“She’s… cute.” he said watching that tiny figure walk away and surviving after her second nsult– great pronunciation for her age, does she even know what she’s saying?”

“Helena is not like other kids.”

“How so?”

You looked at him more tired than anything, rubbing your temples as you made yourself waste spit to talk to him.

“She’s a Supe… by the time she was two she could speak in full sentences, by three she could read at a first and second grade level, and by five she was teaching herself calculus and piano… she’s a genius; I thought she was a normal genius until… her other powers manifested– none of this matters! Just go!” You shook your head in frustration.

“You gave her V?” He said while staring at Helena.

“... I didn’t know what V was until the news broke out, I thought Helena was chosen by God! That the world blessed her with those powers, but when that story came out I’ve been wanting to ask you– did you give her V? but… if you didn’t… who… are you lying to me, John?”

Homelander looked past the concrete walls looking back at that little girl, he didn’t know what to say or do, before you could utter another word he left.

Ryan nose picked the meal quickly, glad that it was friday and his dad would let him stay up ‘til late, Homelander just dropped the meal on their new table and the kid was quick on his feet, the food was still warm, only now did Homelander noticed the extras, couple of small containers holding chili oil and freshly made ranch, garlic knots and a lemon meringue pie, it was too much but Ryan hadn’t hesitated to dig in, before Homelander could ask him to wash his hands he had ripped a slice of pepperoni.

“This is so good!” He said so cheerfully– gosh I was starving, dad.”

“I sure hope so, bud… let’s leave the pie for tomorrow…” he looked grossed out, Ryan sat opening up the garlic knot’s containers– not gonna eat?”

Homelander sat down to join him, the thought of touching all those greasy surfaces was making his stomach hurl, but he relented, taking a slice.

He was young again, and you were there coming back with some drinks as he ate your chicken florentine, this was the same recipe, the chicken was so juicy and the cheese wasn’t greasy. Ryan was shocked to see his father sound so happy as he took another bite.

It was the first time they both ate together where they felt completely comfortable with each other, maybe it was seeing Ryan not pick at his food that made Homelander able to just talk, Ryan told him all about his homework, and the videogame he was playing, he really liked Fifa at the moment even if he himself cared not for the sport.

Helena watched as her mother stood silently hovering above the sink, you hadn’t moved much for a couple of minutes, your daughter more annoyed than anything else regarding this display.

“How do you know Homelander?” she asked with a yawn.

“Huh?” you woke up from your trance– you should be in bed, darling.”

“You too. So… How do you know the clown?”

“Honey, don't say that!”

“He walks around wearing a onesie all day… like a clown… like the rest of those super clowns”

Your daughter always spoke with a creepy maturity, her voice didn’t belong to a kid.

“... He used to be my boss… he was a really bad boss…”

“You used to work for Vought?” She softened her stand.

“Honey… I don’t really want to talk about this… it's late and we are going to the museum tomorrow so you should get some sleep, mommy is just tired… hope you had a good birthday.”

“You should rest too, mother.”

Your daughter's eyes glowed momentarily turning th blinkers off before she made her way to bed, you stared at her door, thinking if she could see you.

No mother should think their child was creepy, Helena was just difficult and abrasive, to be a small kid with her brain must be unbearable. You could recall the moment she asked you about V so vividly, she looked angry, but you had no honest answer to give her, you had to lie, god knows if you got the details right about how these people committed these crimes. Helena simply had no ability to relate to people, and without the funds you couldn’t help her meet her potential, not while you were both stuck living in public housing, not while scraping every penny.

Her few friends forced her to dumb down and even they found her uneasy, only the old people seemed to handle her best, she loved to listen, and her teachers always thought of her as a delight, yet she knew no other Supe beside herself, those pageants were expensive, and networking meetings were hard to get in, talent agencies were costly– having a super-abled kid and trying to make them into a Supe was locked behind a massive paywall, all you could hope was that her genius would let her enter a university early on scholarships.

There was always Godolkin, but god knows if they would let her enter at a young age.

It would be easy if her father was involved, if John was there in her life, she would have the world but he didn’t want her, he had made that clear years ago.

So why did he lie about the V?

It had been two weeks since you seen Homelander, but he saw you a lot, he'd come back and forth-- watching you and the child with ardent curiosity, seeing you made him reminisce, of those many nights and afternoons, of the way no matter how tired you were, you always made sure to look happy when he showed up, the way you looked so at peace while cooking, of the feel of your skin against his and the taste of your precious lips as you kissed him good morning.

He followed you, on your only day off as you took Helena around the city, watching you share a slice of overprice cake while taking notes, and ate cheap chinese for lunch, you waited for two hours as Helena played chess and checkers with some oldies at a chess shop, some russian man gave her lessons-- some of these people dressed nicely perhaps pros. Some won over her and some lost but the games were quick, your daughter seemed happier when she loss than when winning.

Something about that didn’t sit well with Homelander.

Somehow he found himself in your apartment, cracking open the window to sneak in while you headed back home– the tiny apartment felt more like a closet than a habitable space, the ceilign was run down, and the appliances ancient but well kept, your bedroom was simple, cooking books and boxes sat on top of your dressers, a single’s bed with plush comforters and pillows stuck against the wall, with a wardrobe in front of it, and a cheap fan tucked in the corner. He left for your daughter’s room just a few feet away divided by the bathroom were most of the clutter and laundry lived, her bedroom was just as plain, but the books didn’t seem fit for a small child, her desk tidy and organized, he picked up a notebook from the pile, seeing math equations that hurt his eyes within seconds. All her stuff were nice and new, she had a decent computer on top of her bed, an old dresser, but there was an absence of toys– compared to Ryan’s bedroom that was filled with anything he wanted and decorated expertly. A clock adorned her walls but not much else, the few things that looked messy was a tiny plastic chess set, the kind with magnets on the bottom, and some DIY stem kits.

He took to the bathroom, it was old and falling apart, mold was growing in the corner much to Homelander’s disgust, trolley held dozens of beauty stuff and shampoos and detergents, a shelf on the wall held towels and toilet rolls. Homelander looked at a sparkly hairbrush, picking a couple strands of lost hair knowing by their lengths and color that they weren’t yours, and cursing himself for doing this as he place them on small plastic bag he had hid in his glove.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander x you #homelander x reader #the boys fanfiction #personal #my fic tag #not proofread sorry #american royalty #already got 2 more chapters done for this hope yall like it #I really like slow burn stories #my natural enemy is the short story it seems #homelader x f!reader #dadlander #the boys oc

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theinternetisaweboflies · 4 months

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Gates to Heck Chapter 4

"Shishou, I can't find him."

"Of course you can't." Reigen had a slightly manic look on his face, which had been there ever since Teru vanished into thin air. "He's not here anymore. Did he teleport? Can he do that?"

"I think it used up the last of his energy," said Shigeo. "It was already so low. Now I can't find his aura at all. I don't think he's in Seasoning anymore."

Shigeo took out his cellphone, ignoring the missed calls, and speed dialed Teru.

Teru was the one who had programmed his speed dial numbers. Number one was for home, two was for Ritsu, three was for Reigen, and four was for Teru. Shigeo was number one in Teru's phone.

An American pop song began its muffled chorus from somewhere in Teru's jacket, which was still sitting on the coffee table.

"Oh," Shigeo realized. "He doesn't have his shoes either."

There was a knock at the door that made both of them jump and Shigeo frown. As far as he knew, he was still the only person to visit Teru's apartment. Except for Claw.

He intercepted Reigen to answer the door himself, which was probably for the best, since the person on the other side already appeared to be in a bad mood, and Reigen would have only made it worse.

"Ritsu!"

Shigeo should have noticed the familiar aura sooner, but all he could think about were Teru's feet. It was starting to get dark outside, and the temperature was dropping too. The fever might have been failure-induced, but it could still be exacerbated by exposure to the elements. Teru was definitely going to need a hospital after this.

"Tell Hanazawa-kun that if he's going to keep you late, he should at least have the courtesy to ask first. Mom was worried when you didn't show up for dinner. Did you leave your phone on silent again, Nii-san?"

Now all Shigeo could think about was how Teru didn't have anyone to worry about him when his phone went unanswered or when he was late to dinner. He didn't even have anyone to eat dinner with.

Teru's living situation had seemed normal enough to Shigeo when they first met. A lot of Japanese children lived alone so they could attend better schools, and Black Vinegar was one of the best middle schools in Seasoning City.

Of course, most of them didn't start living alone until high school.

Not elementary school.

Shigeo hugged his brother. It wasn't a rare occurrence, but it was unusual enough to break off Ritu's tirade. At least until he saw Reigen.

"Did you rope them into another one of your jobs? I swear-"

"Save your energy, Otouto-kun," said Reigen, who seemed to have found his bearings again under the familiar power of Ritsu's glare. "I think it's gonna' be a long night."

Ritsu bristled like a cat. "I'm not helping you with whatever shady-"

That was when Teru's jacket started to vibrate.

They might not have even heard it if it hadn't been resting on the hard surface of the coffee table. Reigen patted the jacket down until he found a cellphone tucked into one of its pockets.

"That isn't Hanazawa-kun's phone," said Shigeo. They had just heard Teru's phone ring. Reigen was holding a cheap looking flip phone that Shigeo had never seen before.

Reigen answered it with an unsettlingly accurate Teruki Hanazawa impression. "Moshi moshi."

"Who the hell is this?" said the person on the other end.

"Who were you expecting?"

There was a snort. "He calls himself the Kaijin."

Reigen's eyebrow twitched. "What do you call yourself?"

"Misunderstood."

"You-"

"Look, I don't really give a shit," the voice cut him off, "but if you do, then you might wanna' know that Kaijin is in trouble. One of his catches slipped the net, and it was the one that got a taste of his aura the other night. I just felt that same aura flare up, and if our missing man felt it too- well, my gut says he'll be out for payback. He seemed like a Taurus, you know?"

While Shigeo was still processing the first few words, Reigen said, "So why don't you help him?"

"I'm off the clock," the voice said lazily. "I was just calling to tell Kaijin to bring the guy in if he doesn't get himself killed first."

He hung up. Reigen tried to call him back but the phone didn't even ring before being routed to an unactivated voicemail box. He dropped it back onto the coffee table.

"What's going on?" asked Ritsu. "Where's Hanazawa-kun?"

"That's the million yen question," said Reigen. He signed and ran a sweaty palm down his face.

Ritsu wrinkled his nose. "Why did Joseph call him the Kaijin?"

"That's a long- Wait." Reigen twirled around and put both hands on Ritsu's shoulders. "You know who that was?"

"I think so. Let go of me."

"Who was it, Ritsu?" asked Shigeo.

"It sounded like Joseph," said Ritsu, brushing off his shoulders. "You know, from the government? Suzuki-kun calls him sometimes for updates about his father."

"And he answers?" asked Reigen.

Ritsu nodded.

Shigeo didn't have Shou's phone number saved to his speed dial, or even his contacts, but he knew who did.

"May I borrow your phone, Ritsu?"

Ritsu handed it over without question, and Shigeo scrolled through the contacts until he found Suzuki Shou (Arsonist).

Shou answered on the second ring. "Ritsu-kun!"

"Actually, it's Shigeo," he said. "I was wondering if you're available to help us blackmail a government assassin?"

"I'll get my coat!"

#mp100 #mp100 fanfic #terumob #terumob fanfic #this is barely proofread #sorry if it sucks #but someone left a really nice ao3 comment that motivated me to finish this chapter #the phone chapter

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laracrofted · 7 months

Text

baby, i'm high octane (vi)

synopsis: nora goes home with jake.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: very 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, all of the usual warnings, swearing, explicit smut (oral sex, unprotected sex but with a discussion of birth control, multiple orgasms, dirty talk and praise, brief edging, crying, maybe overstimulation). (wc: 6.2K)

note: eventual smut is no longer eventual, everybody cheered 💙

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TAGS: @theharddeck @mayhemmanaged @bradshawsbitch @hangmanbrainrot @its-mara-darling @startrekfangirl2233 @kandierteveilchen @lostinwonderland314 @hangmanscoming @t-nd-rfoot @sometimesanalice @dempy @mlibbydp @djs8891 @bellaireland1981 @clancycucumber230 @kmc1989 @averagereader35 @eli2447 @filmflux @bethbunnyy @roosterbruiser @callsignspark

Nora half expects to wake up any minute now and realize all of this was a dream.

Jenna never called. Nora never poured her heart out in the parking lot of the Hard Deck. She never confessed anything. She never kissed him.

She'll wake up on Fourth of July – like a kind of cruel Groundhog Day – with a dull headache, disoriented and gorged on sleep, and a gnawing ache deep inside of her ribcage.

He must feel the same way – like at any second, Nora'll vanish in a puff of smoke, leaving nothing but sand and ocean breeze – because Jake can't seem to stop kissing her.

He presses his lips to her wrist on the drive home, skimming his nose along her pounding pulse until Nora shivers, breathing in the lingering scent of her perfume.

"You smell so good," Jake mumbles against her delicate skin. "What kind of perfume is that?"

"An expensive one," Nora answers, short on purpose, hoping to hide the breathy quiver in her voice. They're not even out of the car yet for Christ's sake.

"'S nice," Jake says softly. A smile brushes against her skin, and with cooling summer air on her cheeks, she shivers again.

And now, as Nora struggles to unlock her door, Jake's lips are warm and purposeful and and goddamn distracting on the slope of her shoulder, on the side of her neck, nudging the collar of her shirt aside and exposing more skin.

Her hands are shaking like Nora's had four cups of coffee, and as Jake hooks a deft finger through her belt loop and gently tugs her back into him, breath warm on her skin, pleasantly rough palm skimming underneath her shirt, Nora's head spins.

She's not even buzzed anymore, but Nora feels drunk on his warmth, on his skin on hers. A little out of breath. A little light headed.

Unexpectedly, Jake nips at a sensitive spot right below her ear, and Nora feels it like a shock, a zap of static electricity.

Surprised, Nora jerks and misses the lock, scratching a jagged line of paint from the door. She cringes.

No security deposit, at least.

"Son of a bitch."

"Need some help there, Hollywood?" Jake asks. Amusement is audible in his voice. So goddamn smug.

"Nope," Nora says quickly. "I've got it."

Jake chuckles against her neck. A rumble Nora feels down to her goddamn fingertips. Damn him.

Son of a bitch, once more for emphasis.

It's really all Nora can do not to let her head loll back on the strong line of his shoulder and let him press her up against the door in the periwinkle blue of the evening. Let him have her right here and right now.

And right – Nora reminds herself, drawing on her more logical side, shoving aside her hasn't-gotten-laid-in-several-months side – where anyone could come back and see them.

Gathering all of her willpower, Nora gently swats away the hand that's been absentmindedly fiddling with the button of her shorts and elbows him back. She grins at him over her shoulder. "Down, boy."

Grinning, Jake backs off.

Leaning against the railing – rusted and in some spots, flaking from endless exposure to ocean air and sun – Jake looks like a scolded schoolboy; one who’s doing his damndest to charm his way out of trouble, hands shoved deep in his denim pockets. Like, See? I'm keeping my hands to myself now. I'm on my best behavior.

For now, as promised by the liquid warmth in his eyes, volcanic pools of green.

She's sure Jake must be able to hear her heart practically pounding out of her chest, but finally, Nora catches the lock and nudges the door open with a lean of her shoulder.

She does a quick glance around the living room – A camera sits on the coffee table, next to the day old coffee that Nora had been nursing late last night and definitely meant to pour out this morning. Notes are scattered across her laptop. – all but pushes him down the hall.

Once in the bedroom, Nora switches on the AC.

Cool air spills into the room, which is uncomfortably warm from an afternoon's worth of sun beaming in from the window, with a quiet hum, and Nora feels a little less on edge.

It's not as quiet with the AC on, not as still.

Even so, Nora has the strangest urge to whisper.

She clears the cobwebs from her throat. "Give me a minute?"

Jake nods. "Sure."

He closes the door behind him with a click that seems to echo.

She swallows and is sure Jake must be able to hear that too.

Everyone else is out for the night. No one'll come knocking. It's just them. Just them.

“I’ll… I’ll just be a minute,” Nora repeats. You said that already.

His lips twitch, but for once, Jake is merciful enough not to comment.

“I’ll be here,” Jake replies evenly, calm and sure.

She ducks into the bathroom and closes the door.

Dropping one of her hands to the side of the sink, Nora blows out a long breath. Fans her blushing cheeks.

This is happening. This is really happening.

She's not nervous, not about this part, not really.

Everything at the Hard Deck was so vivid and intense and real. She was so open with him. So unguarded. Like Nora handed him her heart, still bloodied and beating, and an instruction manual on how to break it with his bare hands. He's already seen more of her than Nora's been willing to share with anyone in a long time now.

Well...

Anyone who isn’t a licensed professional, and even then, Nora ghosted her last therapist. Avoidant attachment? Please.

And really, what is this kind of intimacy in comparison?

There's just an eerie sense of inevitability in... this, in them.

Like she is playing out something which has already happened, will always happen. Like she could've done everything differently and still, ended up right here. Right here with Jake.

It's not a bad feeling, more of a disconcerting one.

She washes her hands, and remembering Jake's compliments, does a quick reapplication of perfume, dabbing across her pulse points, crisp greens and soft florals.

Nora splashes cold water on her face, across the back of her neck, and checks her reflection.

Her eyes are bright and blue and filled with something like giddiness.

"This is happening," Nora whispers, hushed so Jake won't hear her in the other room. "This is happening."

She smiles.

And when Nora returns, Jake is sitting on the edge of the bed.

He must've kicked off his shoes somewhere in the living room because Jake is barefoot, ankle resting on the denim of his opposite knee. He is holding a book Nora recognizes from her nightstand, reading the back cover with a slight dip between his brows.

Nora pads over and leans against the dresser on the wall across from her bed. Her arms are crossed over her Springsteen shirt as Nora watches him, hand rising to press against her lips.

"Snooping?"

His mouth kicks up in the corners, dimpling his cheeks, but Jake doesn't immediately look up.

"Just lookin' around," Jake explains. "You can be kinda hard to read sometimes."

She glances around.

She hasn't had much time to decorate, but Nora always adds a few personal touches. A silk pillowcase. A bedside of well-worn paperbacks. A half-burned candle from Diptyque. Flowers. She wonders what Jake sees of her here.

Aiming for casual, Nora asks, "Oh? Learn anything?"

His gaze flashes up to meet hers, vaguely amused, like Jake knows Nora is fishing.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?"

Jake leans across the bed and deposits the book back on the nightstands, losing interest now that Nora is back in the room, apparently. She feels the weight of his full attention. It’s kind of exhilarating.

His crossed ankle drops so Jake is resting both of his feet on the floor. He crooks a finger at her and pats his muscular thigh.

"C'mere, sweetheart."

His voice is so deep, deep enough to dive in, and Jake looks so handsome, sprawled on the edge of her bed, glimmering and gold. He looks like a daydream.

Still, Nora stands her ground.

A small smile blossoms across her features, against her fingers, and Nora slowly shakes her head.

He cocks a brow. "Are we at an impasse? Is this a good ol’ fashioned standoff?”

“Not at all,” she drawls, cool and calm. "You could come over here."

And pulse racing, Nora slips her shirt over her head and drops it on the floor.

She stands in front of him in her cut-off shorts and her pale blue cowboy boots and a lace bra, which is almost the exact same shade, and Jake scrapes a hand down his face, expression open and raw, near pained.

“Fuck me,” Jake breathes. A kind of awe in his voice. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

Her lips curve coyly. "I sure hope not."

Jake smirks, watching her with half-lidded eyes, almost hoarse with unbridled desire. "Why? You got big plans for me?"

“Why don’t you come over here and find out, cowboy?”

And mimicking him, Nora crooks a polished finger at him.

She really expects him to spar with her a little longer, but Jake rises so quickly that Nora knocks back into the dresser. Her elbow bangs into a bottle of hair spray, sending it spinning. She barely notices.

Because Jake grabs her around the waist and lifts her up. Her dresser is about the same height as one of her kitchen counters, which is the exact right height for him to set her on top and settle between her parted legs.

Jake cups her hip with a warm palm, spreading his fingers, touching as much bare skin as possible. His index finger skims across the band of her bra, and Nora leans her head back to hold his gaze.

"Gonna let me in on these plans of yours, sweetheart?" Jake asks, stroking all the while, ever so lightly, ever so slowly.

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, Nora shakes her head.

“You wanna hear my plans then?” Jake drawls. His hand is burning warm on her side, and Nora claws at his bicep – looking for something to hold onto, something grounding. Muscles flex beneath her fingers.

He waits for her to nod before Jake leans in and, warm lips pressed against her ear, rasps, "Just wanna make you come so hard you cry, Hollywood."

Fuck.

Her breath hitches, and Jake grins lazily against the side of her neck. He draws back, nipping her earlobe on his way, gaze darting back and forth as Nora licks her suddenly chapped lips.

"Just that, huh?" Nora asks. She hardly recognizes her own voice.

“Just that,” Jake murmurs and smirking, kisses her again.

A deep and deeply thorough kiss.

Has Nora ever been kissed like this before? He kisses her with a consuming and devouring passion, like Jake could never be close enough. He'll always want to be closer, always want more.

She holds onto him because otherwise, Nora might actually collapse. She might slide from the dresser and melt into a puddle right here in the carpeted bedroom of her rented – and not even really, rented – apartment, and Mr. Clean himself will never be able to get out the stain.

Her arms wind around his strong neck as Nora sighs against his open mouth, greedily carding her fingers through his hair – which is as soft as she had ever dared imagine – and Jake swallows the sound with a ragged groan, tongue sliding across the seam of her lips and into her mouth.

He catches the end of her braid between his fingers and slowly pulls until the elastic comes loose with a snap, and Nora's hair spills like sunshine over her shoulders, across his open palm.

Loose strands wind around his fingers, around the hand settling on the side of her neck and stroking across the underside of her jaw; coaxing her chin up, coaxing her mouth open for him.

He is so broad between her legs, and Nora runs her hands across his wide back and strong shoulders, searching for golden skin to run her hands over. She wants to swallow him whole. She wants him in her veins.

Linen is stiff between her fingers as Nora grasps at his collar, almost hanging off of him, desperate and wanting, and Jake catches on quick.

Not quick enough.

Because as Jake starts to draw back, reaching for the buttons, Nora yanks hard.

A surprised curse escapes him, and Jake lurches forward, hands slapping on the surface of the flimsy dresser, which rocks under her and knocks into the wall.

Nora grabs at his shoulder with an alarmed laugh, and Jake's chuckle fans across her collarbone.

"Hold on."

He picks her up again, legs wrapped around his hips, and sweeps her from the dresser. She collapses on the bed, breathless with laughter, an embarrassingly wide smile on her face, and Jake follows her down.

"Someone's eager," Jake teases.

She reaches down and runs her palm across his zipper, barely pressing down and smirks when Jake almost shudders and pushes into her hand.

"Yeah," Nora drawls back. "Someone is."

Jake brushes her hair aside and sucks a bruise into a hollow bellow her ear, right on the edge of where Nora'll be able to cover with her hair. A kind of gentle retaliation.

Her laugh becomes a breathless moan, pitching louder as Jake cups her neck with his wide palm.

"That's a pretty sound, darling," Jake rasps. His fingers pluck at the sheer band of her bra. "This is damn pretty too. You plan this or something?" He nudges her head back with his nose and mouths at the hinge of her jaw, mouth warm and wet and heady.

"Just like the color is all." Nora pauses. "But I have thought about this before."

He is all smugness. “Yeah? How much?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m so not stroking your ego right now. Take your damn shirt off.”

He grins.

She pushes up on her elbows, watching as Jake stands and makes quick work of the buttons. He shrugs the shirt from his shoulders, which lands in a wrinkle pile on the floor.

And goddamn, Jake looks good without a shirt on.

She knew this, of course. She’s seen him without a shirt on before.

She's always been careful to avert her eyes before, careful not to look too hard or for too long.

She doesn’t have to be careful here. She can look her fill.

He is so… big, all corded muscle and golden skin and a light dusting of fine hair, leading down his chest and disappearing beneath the black waistband of his boxers, which peek out from the denim.

She’s not sure if she wants to punch him or herself.

Nora leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the center of his chest, looking up at him from under her lashes, and Jake shivers, heart pounding under her lips.

And Nora carefully winds her fingers around the chain around his neck and pulls him back down.

As Jake hovers over her, Nora starts to kick her boots off, but Jake's hand wraps around her calf, smoothing over her skin with his fingers, pleasantly digging into the muscle.

She raises her eyebrows, and Jake presses a kiss to the hollow of her clavicle, unhurried and careful and convincing. He hums, “Keep ‘em on.”

Her mouth drops open, but really, is Nora so surprised? “I’m not keeping them on.”

And Jake looks so crestfallen that Nora laughs. His eyes warm at the sound.

Still, Jake asks, “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want them on my sheets. I have to sleep on – Jake!”

Jake pulls her to the edge of the mattress in one smooth motion, hitching her legs around his hips. His grin is downright devilish. “They’re not touching the sheets, Hollywood. Problem solved.”

She opens her mouth to argue more, but Jake silences her with a slow and sensual kiss between her breasts. He moves over a few inches and sucks, peaking her nipple through the sheer lace of her bra, and Nora arches into him with a gasp.

Her boots are long forgotten now.

"Jesus, Jake."

She squirms under him, and Jake holds her down with his weight, with a firm press of his hand, spread wide over her shaking stomach.

She's long past a struck match now. She's the one who's been doused in gasoline.

"You're so beautiful," Jake murmurs.

He licks at the lace, a shade of denim blue under his attention, in no rush to slip it from her shoulders, and meanwhile, Nora is coming out of her skin. She needs more, so much more.

"Can you..."

He sucks on the lace, cheeks hollowing, and Nora's question blows away like sand.

"Can I? Can I what?" Jake prompts.

He slips a hand under the cup of her bra and rolls her pebbled nipple between his fingers. Tease. She bends into him, a desperate sound bubbling up and spilling from her lips, and Jake grins.

“Ah, sweetheart, was there something else you wanted?”

She goes to pull him closer, winding her fingers through his hair, but Jake doesn't budge.

His grin widens. "Ask me nicely, sweetheart. What do you want?”

She glares at him. "I want your mouth."

"You've already got my mouth, darling. Here?"

He slides her bra aside and kisses her breast, licking and sucking, mouth hot and wet on her skin.

She shakes her head.

"Be specific," Jake commands. "Where do you want my mouth?"

But Nora can’t be specific. She just wants.

“Everywhere,” Nora breathes.

She shouldn’t have said that. She really shouldn’t have said that because now, Jake is looking at her like he wants to devour her; to pull her on like a loose thread and see how long she needs to unravel.

Like Nora is a four course meal and Jake hasn’t eaten in a week.

A muscular thigh slots in between her legs and presses up and up and god, up against the aching spot between her legs, and Nora shivers beneath him. He flicks open the button of her cut-offs with a practiced ease and slides them down her legs. She kicks them off.

Another wrinkled mess to clean up in the morning.

“Think I might want to make you beg a little bit,” Jake muses, scraping his calloused palms over the backs of her naked thighs. He leans down and presses a chaste, barely there kiss on her hipbone, lips curling when Nora shudders underneath him. Asshole. “Say please for me, would you, sweetheart?”

“Oh, not a chance.”

He looks delighted.

“And what if I said please?”

His lips drag across her skin, warm and damp and purposeful, as Jake brushes the lace edge of her pale blue panties on his way over the opposite hip, pressing another kiss there, one that lingers.

“What if I said I really, really wanna to hear you?”

Damn damn damn.

Cheeks warm, Nora counters, “You better make it good then,” with a daring smile that makes Jake grin from ear to ear, all gleaming white teeth and dimples, carved into his cheeks like marble.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake drawls.

And holding her gaze, Jake rises from the edge of the mattress and sinks down on his knees. He lowers her legs over his broad shoulders, boots and all.

His lips brush over the small bandage that covers the scrape on her knee, and overcome, Nora lets out a shaky sigh.

"So goddamn beautiful," Jake swears, warm breath scraping over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "So wet, darling. All for me?"

Jake finds the damp spot in the center of her panties and presses in with his knuckle. She's so wet his bent finger slides across the lace with an obscene sound.

A delicious tease. A mere preview.

A needy sound is out of her mouth before Nora can stop herself, and Jake pauses.

"Oh? Did you want something?" Jake asks with an edge of mocking.

"You're such... ah, an asshole."

"You like when I'm a little bit of an asshole," Jake murmurs, eyes gleaming.

It’s not a question. He doesn’t need an answer. He already knows.

And Jake pulls her panties to the side and opens his mouth against her wet cunt.

God. His tongue.

A sort of whimper catches on the rough edges of her throat, and Jake's answering chuckle blows across her exposed core.

“Everything okay?”

So goddamn smug.

He sounds so damn pleased with himself. Self-satisfaction oozes from his tone, and Nora is starting to understand what Jake meant about being smug later. He’s good at this, at all of this, like so infuriatingly good. She kind of hates him.

“I don’t like you anymore.”

“Liar,” Jake says and leans back in.

He licks her open with a moan, a deep and deeply satisfied sound, rich and rough, like Jake is the one who's getting the most pleasure out of this. He works her open with a finger, then another, laving over her with broad and eager strokes of his tongue.

He's almost greedy in his licks, bringing her to the edge and right when Nora is clenching around his broad fingers, legs quaking on his shoulders, boots digging into his bare back – Jake pulls back.

He smears a wet kiss across her inner thigh and starts all over again, parting her with his fingers and spearing her open with his clever tongue.

She sucks in a breath that sounds like his name, desperate and wanting, biting down hard on her lower lip, brow drawn.

"Jake..."

"Come on, sweetheart," Jake hums the words against her, practically licks them into her. "I wanna hear you. Please, can I hear you?"

She's so close so close so –

He eases back again, right as Nora is starting to feel fuzzy all over, and Nora almost cries. She grabs at his shoulder, at his hair.

"Please," Nora gasps. "Please, Jake, please."

He exhales a pleased sound against her cunt, breathing fanning across her, making her shiver and making her cant closer to his mouth, desperate for his tongue again.

He curls his fingers inside of her. Just so. Just enough.

"So good for me, darling, sweetheart. So perfect."

And Jake kisses her clit, winding his tongue around the neglected bundle of nerves, and Nora comes with a gasp, crumpling the sheets between her fingers.

She catches her breath as Jake licks her clean, murmuring sweet praises against her skin, bottom half of his face glistening with saliva and her.

Just so sweet and god, like heaven, sweetheart and so good for me again.

Pushing up on her elbows, Nora is panting. "I wanna be on top."

Jake kind of chokes on a laugh. “‘Course you do.”

Her panties are eased down her legs, but Jake doesn't move from between them; if anything, Jake spreads them wider, pinning her open with his shoulders, pinning her down with a steadying hand on her pelvic bone.

"Jake..."

It’s closer to a whine than Nora would’ve liked.

"Just a second, sweetheart," Jake soothes, words an unhurried drawl. His rough palms run over her quivering legs and back again. "Now I've been thinking about these pretty legs in those goddamn boots all night. I'm not quite done down here. Need one more from you."

His warm breath ghosts across the apex of her thighs, open and dripping for him. "You've got one more for me, don't'cha?

He regards her with a wide and leonine grin, a knowing grin.

"Yes," Nora whispers.

Jake rewards her with a bruise sucked into the inside of her thigh; a gentle but firm press of his canines; a flick of his tongue over the sore patch. "Good."

And as Jake spreads her open and presses in with his mouth and his tongue, savoring her like a lavish dessert, Nora slumps back on the rumpled sheets, hair fanning out around her like a golden halo. Her mouth opens in a soft gasp as Jake drags her back under.

Late evening still pours through the window, casting the whole room in a golden glow, a dreamlike haze.

Everything feels more intimate somehow.

It's not a rushed press of hands and mouths in the darkness, desperate to keep quiet in the quiet of the night. It's a slow exploration – or at least, as slow as either of them can stand. It’s feverish and leisurely and intoxicating. No one’s in a rush.

As Nora steadies her breathing, recovering from a brain-melting-out-of-her-ears orgasm, Jake eases her boots and her socks from her feet. He kisses her ankle, kisses the hollow behind her knee, cheek scraping against her skin.

Standing, Jake reaches for his belt buckle. His mouth shines in the waning light, eyes slanted and warm. He loosens his buckle one-handed and in one smooth motion, drops his blue jeans, leaving him in his black boxers.

He stands in front of her, straining against the fabric, and Nora’s mouth actually waters.

She kneels on the edge of the mattress and eases the elastic down until Jake’s cock is revealed, hard and proud and beautiful. Her lips part in an admiring exhale, and Jake chuckles, stroking her cheek with the side of his thumb.

His amusement is short-lived.

It becomes something darker, richer as Nora wets her fingers with her tongue and wraps them around his cock and strokes him once and again. A bead of pre-cum catches on her thumb as Nora runs it across the slick head of his cock.

Looking up at him, Nora sucks it from her finger, and Jake’s chest heaves with a ragged exhale.

A strained curse escapes him. “Shit.”

Nora smirks, and Jake sucks in a deep breath.

She doesn’t do more than press a glancing kiss to the mole below his v-line; do more than lick at the underside of his cock; do more than let out a satisfied exhale at the weight of him on her tongue, eyes fluttering closed, before Nora pulls back.

Her voice lowers into something honeyed, something teasing. “Say please for me, cowboy?”

Then, Nora is on her back in the middle of the mattress.

Jake looms over her, breathing hard, chest heaving and flushed; coarse hair brushing against her breasts.

"As much as I've been fantasizing about your mouth..." He runs his thumb across her glistening lips, and Nora can’t stop herself from kissing the pad of his finger. “... I really want to fuck you right now. How’s that sound to you?”

Good. So good.

But Nora can’t pass up an opportunity to be a little smug.

“What’s wrong?” Nora asks. "Afraid of embarrassing yourself?"

"Yes," Jake says. "I'm so fucking worked up right now I'll come in about six seconds with your mouth on me. And right now, I don't wanna come before I've had a chance to feel you coming around my cock."

His earnestness is so goddamn sexy that Nora loses her breath for a second. "We can probably make that work."

He smirks. “Thought so.”

Jake stretches out on the mattress, rearranging the pillows with one hand and reaching for her with the other. He draws her in until Nora is in his lap, her hands braced on his massive shoulders, running over his muscles.

“Condom?” Jake asks. He runs a hand over the length of her spine until Nora arches into him with a sigh. He palms at her ass and ducks his head to mouth at her breasts, sucking and licking and nibbling. She'll have marks in the morning for sure. He's a biter.

"I have an IUD. And I'm clean."

"I'm clean," Jake mumbles against her collarbone. "I haven't been with anyone since I met you."

She freezes, and mistaking it for discomfort, Jake lifts his head.

"We can still use one," Jake offers. She can read his sincerity in his eyes. "I've probably got one in my wallet or something."

“It’s… not that.” Nora shakes her head. “It’s… No one? Really?”

As Jake shrugs, Nora’s arms rise and fall with the motion.

“No one.” Jake brushes a strand of hair from her face, resting his palm on her nape. “Just you.”

Chest pinching, Nora grasps his neck and kisses him hard, almost bruising.

He makes a low sound against her mouth, and as Nora wraps her hand around his cock again, squeezing his length ever so slightly, Jake moans. He wraps his hand around hers, guiding her to run his head across her dripping entrance.

Jake slicks his cock with her arousal, coating himself in her wetness with hard and quick motions, and starts to press in.

Her legs shake as Nora sinks down on him, slow. God

She bites her lip at the delicious searing stretch of him. God.

Nora gets halfway down, mouth falling open, and and Jake swears under his breath. A reverent sound. He says it like a Sunday school prayer.

"Goddamn, sweetheart." Jake kisses her sloping shoulder, her slack jaw, her open mouth. "You feel so good. You're so.... You're so fucking perfect. Jesus Christ."

She braces her hands on his shoulders, on his bulging arms, and eases down – slow, one inch at a time, and when Jake is finally – blessedly – seated inside of her, Nora can feel a prickle of sweat at her brow.

She moves, almost like a reflex, desperate for friction, desperate for more, but Nora's barely moved when Jake seizes her hips, pressing in, and holds her in place. She's pinned open, knees spread wide, denting the sheets on either side of his massive and muscular thighs, and full, so goddamn full.

Her brow pinches in frustration, and Nora rocks down experimentally, but Jake firms his grip. He stills her movements.

Her brow wrinkles, and Nora rocks down experimentally, but Jake firms his grip and stills her movements.

"Jake," Nora complains or maybe, pleads. She doesn't even know anymore.

All Nora knows is that Jake is so big.

"Ah, darling. Let me savor this for a second," Jake croons, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. His voice sounds strained around the edges, which is no small satisfaction. He's as affected as Nora.

And when Jake moves, finally, Jake starts slow. He savors again.

He holds her hips and guides her up and back down. He pushes in so deep and so slow Nora can't help but feel like Jake is punishing her somehow. He is making her feel every inch of him. His pace is downright excruciating.

She needs more. She needs needs needs.

He handed her an ace earlier, and Nora reaches for it now.

She licks at his neck, a broad stroke of her tongue across his sweaty skin, and whispers, “Please, Jake,” hot against the shell of his ear. She nibbles at his earlobe. "Please."

Jake bucks up into her. A gasp punches from her chest, and Nora digs her nails into his shoulders.

“Please what?”

Nora can hear the smirk in his voice. She doesn’t care.

“Fuck me. Fuck me until I cry. Please."

It’s like Jake was waiting for those words.

He fucks up into her at a near brutal pace. Rocks her down on him in hard and delicious and delirious strokes until Nora is gasping against his shoulder.

And Jake runs his mouth.

"Look at you, sweetheart," Jake drawls. He sounds so in awe and so unbearably smug. How is it even possible to be both? "Those're some pretty sounds you're making for me right now. How's it feel? How's that cock you begged for feel?"

Fuck. She clenches around him.

A wide grin stretches across his face, and Nora wants to kill him. She never wants to be anywhere other than right here.

“You’re… ah, talking too much. You’re ruining it.”

She’s such a liar.

"S'that right? You don't wanna hear about..." Jake rolls his hips and hits a spot deep inside of her that makes her keen. His smirk widens. “How much I fucking love the way you feel around my cock, so goddamn good?"

"How pretty you looked when you were coming all over my face, making the prettiest sounds? How wet you got for me? How gorgeous you look right now?" He seems to notch in deeper with every word until Nora is almost boneless against him. "You sure about that, sweetheart?"

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t feel capable of answering.

His lips glance over her cheekbone, smoothing and mocking in equal measures, and mouth over to her ear. Jake rasps, "Well, by all means, sweetheart, shut me up."

Nora draws in a steadying breath. And pushes him back into the pillows.

“There’s my girl,” Jake murmurs in his melted brown sugar voice, hoarse with desire, and Nora damn near melts.

Instead, Nora plants her hands on his chest and rides him, determined.

She rises up and sinks back down in a sudden motion, knocking the breath out of both of them. She rocks down on him, clenching and squeezing, until Jake is the one who is ragged and uneven and desperate. He grows sloppier, kissing her shoulder, open-mouthed and moaning.

“God, Nora,” Jake groans, a rough sound, and Nora will never forget the wrecked sound of her name on his lips. No one else should ever say her name.

She kisses him.

And kisses him and kisses him and gasps and moans into his mouth as Jake holds her hips hard enough to bruise and circles her clit with precise and delicious circles. A shock of arousal pulls in the pit of her stomach with every deliberate caress.

“Come for me. Come around my cock. Need to feel you come around my cock,” Jake urges in a strangled rush of breath. He must be close. “Please.”

Nora comes with a soundless moan. She sobs his name into his shoulder, biting down, moisture spilling down her flushed cheeks, scratching down his back.

And soon after, Jake has her on her back on the bed, pinning her knees open and plunging in deep until Jake follows her over the edge and spills inside of her with one last groan.

After, Jake pulls on his boxers and gets them both a glass of water and fetches her a damp washcloth. She pushes it aside with a languid smile and drags herself out of bed to use the bathroom. She doesn’t want an infection.

Indigo shadows grow long in the room, bruises of the night, as Nora lies across the bed, arms crossed underneath her head, chest resting on her forearm, watching him. He drags his fingers down the length of her spine, drawing invisible patterns. She feels content and warm.

And Jake is gazing at her in this intense way, eyes deep and green and smoldering.

He is gazing at her like gaze is a diminutive of stargaze, not another word for look; like she is a whole night sky, unraveled and wide and open before him, and Jake's determined to map out every last constellation, commit them to memory.

She wonders if he has always looked at her kind of like this; like he's afraid to look away.

“Go on a date with me,” Jake murmurs.

She blinks, lashes skimming her cheeks. Her voice is a kind of drowsy hoarse. “Hm. Where?”

A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Let’s see. You already turned me down for what? Dinner and coffee? What else’ve I got left?”

She grins against her arm. “Breakfast. Lunch.”

“Breakfast,” Jake repeats. “I make a mean pancake.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” Jake promises, solemn, a hand-over-heart level of seriousness. “Family recipe.”

“I don’t even think I have the ingredients for pancakes in the kitchen,” Nora admits.

He coasts his knuckles across her back, over her shoulder and back, and Nora closes her eyes, relaxed.

“I know a good diner,” Jake offers, voice low and rasping. “They’ve got coffee.” She opens her mouth. “And non-dairy milk.” She closes it again, pressing her lips together in a half smile and squinting her eyes open.

“And is this magical diner your apartment?”

He laughs. A real eye-crinkling laugh.

“No, smart ass, it's a real diner on Orange."

"Shame. I kind of wanted to see your apartment," Nora says, rolling over and stretching her arms above her head. "You've seen mine. It's only fair."

"Careful..." Jake warns. He closes the distance between them, wrapping an arm around her side, pulling her close. "If I get you in my bed, I might wanna try and keep you there."

"Well...." Nora winds her leg around his hip to pull him closer. He grows harder against her leg, already leaking. "You can definitely try."

Her lips curve, and Jake grins.

And as Jake rolls her under him, hands skimming up her sides, and pushes inside of her again, Nora catches a glimpse in the distance over his shoulder. A firework sailing upwards and bursting open in a shower of sparks, wide and beautiful, across indigo skies.

end note: wowwowwow it's been a good 33,000 words of build up so i really hope i did them justice 🤍 likes are always appreciated, but comments and reblogs make my whole day. i love hearing from y'all.

read the next chapter here!

#will probably need to proofread again in the morning #but i wanted to post her asap #also only one more chapter ?!?!#stop i'm emotional #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x oc #jake seresin x nora rogers #hangman x oc #hangman fic #hangman smut #jake seresin smut #fic: baby i'm high octane #laracrofted writes

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blaithnne · 7 months

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The adhd urge to post every chapter immediately after writing it vs the autism urge to wait until the entire fanfic is finished and has pictures to go along with it before even mentioning it exists

#on the bright side I’m having fun #haven’t written properly in so long #gonna try and get maybe 5-6 chapters written before publishing?#depending on how long they take #cause I wanna at least get the first few chapters out before season 3 #but I also want to like. wait until I have everything written before publishing #and also I want to publish what I have written now immedeitly #thank god I can share it with my friends I dragged into proofreading for me otherwise I’d be going insane LMAO #audhd is wild cause sometimes the symptoms contradict t eachother so much #that they cancel eachother out and you just can’t do anything #hilda #netflix hilda #hilda netflix #hilda the series #fanfic #textpost #Sadie thinkin

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ruexvn · 1 month

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𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚞𝚗𝚝: 8

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗....𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛. 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚗. 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍. 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛- 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛; 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖...𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚖 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙰 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚖𝚖?

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠....𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎. 𝚁𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎...𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕. 𝙴𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢...𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑

𝙰𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔.... 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜....𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎.

𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎

"...𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢..𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕...𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝.."

"𝚖𝚖"

"...𝚠𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚗...𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜...𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝.."

"𝚊-𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛.....𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢....𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑-𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 ....𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎"

-𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚔-

"𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔"

𝙼𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎. 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

"𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜..𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜..."

"...𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖....𝚑-𝚑𝚊-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛.."

𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛...𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜. 𝚈/𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎...𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜....𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎.....

"𝚢/𝚗? 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚜? 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚖....."

"𝚗𝚘"

-𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑-

"𝚏𝚞-𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏...."

"𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎?...𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍? 𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚡 𝚝𝚘𝚢?"

"𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎"

"𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎"

"𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛....𝚜𝚙𝚒-𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝...𝙽𝙾𝚆"

"𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎......𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚍. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐....𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎..."

"....𝚗𝚘..."

"𝚢𝚎𝚜...𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗...𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗...."

"..."

"....𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜....𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝..𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞....𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍....."

"𝚖𝚖𝚑𝚖"

"𝙸𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚎'𝚍....𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝....𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎....𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎"

"𝚠𝚑𝚢....𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒-𝚒 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙..."

"𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍....𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?"

𝙸 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖....𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌.....𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚖 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗. 𝙰 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜....

𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

...𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

"....𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙"

"𝚐𝚘-🪓-……."

"....𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚖...𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢"

"....𝚏𝚞..𝚌𝚔...𝚢𝚘𝚞.....𝘤𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩......𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕....𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜...𝚘𝚞𝚝"

𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜.

𝘛𝘩𝑢𝑑

𝙼𝚊𝚗....𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜....

"𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢?..."

"𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚘-" "𝙳𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢!?"

-𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙-

"𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕...𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚊?..." 𝘭𝑖𝑓𝑡

"𝙳𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚏!"

"𝚢𝚎𝚊?...𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚢"

"𝚒𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛!"

-𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜-

"𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕"

“…𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗...𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔?"

"𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎.....𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚔?...𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎"

"𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢"

-𝙷𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜-

".."

"...𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢"

".....𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗....𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙....𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝"

"......𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗..."

"𝚢𝚎𝚜.....𝚝𝚑𝚎...𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜....𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠...𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚜..."

"...𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝"

"𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎...𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜..𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎......𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕..."

-𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎-

"𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍....𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎..."

"...𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎"

"𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.....𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎....."

"𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗..𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎...."

"...."

"𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎"

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝...𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠..𝚓𝚎𝚎𝚣.

𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜....𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔....𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔. 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍...𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍.....𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚒𝚖...𝚝𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔.....

"𝚒 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞...𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝"

𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐....𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎...𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

ʙ: ɢᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴍᴏɴᴛʜ

ᴍᴇ: ᴋ

𝚆𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍. 𝙹𝚎𝚎𝚣 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗

-𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔-

.....

-𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔-

.....

-𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚔𝚗𝚘-

"𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚞-....."

"𝚑𝚎-𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐...𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎?"

"...𝚢𝚎𝚊...𝚢𝚎𝚊..𝚑𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢.."

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢...𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚑𝚞𝚑

"....𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒?....𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚎..."

𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔.

-𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙-

".. 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚐𝚎-𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚘-𝚘𝚖-𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗"

"𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞"

𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗...𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗.

𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍. 𝙸 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚢....𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝚢/𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜.....𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚢...

"...𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐...𝚖𝚖𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞....."

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌�� 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝. 𝙼𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢. 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑

"..𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛....𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜...."

"𝚖𝚖...𝚢𝚎𝚊...𝚖𝚖𝚑𝚗..𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠"

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛

"𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢..𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚑𝚖....𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛..."

"𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎....𝚜'𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚝-𝚘𝚙-𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚊?"

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙰 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔

-𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑-

"𝚘𝚔 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔....𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟-𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞...𝚋𝚒𝚝-𝚌𝚑-𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑"

"𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍"

"𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑"

"𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍!"

"𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑!"

"𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔...."

"𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎..."

"𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑"

"𝚝𝚘𝚞-𝚌𝚑-𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎"

𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗..𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚍... 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎....𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

"...𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?"

"𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘-"

"𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘?"

"....𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎..𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛"

"𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝..."

"𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝"

𝚆𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙸𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢...𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑....𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. 𝙸 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚒 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛...𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚖 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚢? 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚊. 𝙸𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜.

"𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛?...."

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜...𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝙸𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗....𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜...𝚘𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝙸 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢/𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍...𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛...𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.....𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜.

𝙸 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙹𝚎𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕...𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝...𝚑𝚎𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝..𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎...

𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐...𝚒 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎...𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐...𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗...𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢....𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛.

𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕...𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒 𝚋𝚎𝚐....𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘

𝙸 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢.... 𝚒 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔

"𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚝...𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑..."

"𝚏𝚞-𝚌𝚔-𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚘...𝚖𝚖𝚖- 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚣𝚢..."

"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜...."

𝙸 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗, 𝚒 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗...𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎....𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗.....𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎

"...𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜...."

"𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜?...."

"𝚖𝚑𝚖...."

"𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎....."

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜.

"...𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚎-𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗...𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌-𝚔𝚒𝚌-𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜...𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜...."

"...𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎"

"𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑..."

"𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢"

𝙼𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝. 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗

.....𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍....𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

#creepypasta #creepypasta blog #ticci toby #toby rodgers #therunt #not proofread ;p #yall arent gonna like me for the next chapter #this part is just like a quick summary for whats gonna happen next chptr

28 notes · View notes